


Bound by the Heart

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor Talbot expected to hate the man she was supposed to marry when her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury, proposed marriage into the House of York. Soon she finds her hate turn to love so unbreakable it will live the truest test the heart can bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When First My Eyes Did See You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Fantasy_Novelist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fantasy_Novelist/gifts).



**Shrewsbury  
** 1458

“My lady?” The young maid drew her attention from the window. Eleanor Talbot had been looking of the window, the sun shining on the grass outside, light flooded the chamber with rainbow colours as the droplets from last night’s rain dried. Light blue eyes met the smooth, fragile features of the young maid who, smiling, slipped the last of the hair pins into her mistresses hair. “What dress would my lady like to wear today? The pink does so bring out my ladies eyes, the green makes your hair look golden.”  
  
“The blue one of damask I believe Emma.”  
  
“But my lady, it does not bring out your beauty it is your house dress your-“ The pretty girl was silenced as her mistress held up a delicate hand, waving ti in dismissal. The girl curtsied, retreating to get the dress. Eleanor scratched her arm, staring at the pretty girl staring back from the mirror. The delicate features, her eyes of pale blue and her hair of russet blonde reaching her lower back, her nose of perfect proportion and lips soft pink cushions so tempting to kiss; how many times sweet Peter had told her. She exhaled a sigh averting her eyes as her maid approached with the dress. “Tis a shame my lady, that you wear this dress. Your good lord and father wills for you to look beautiful. You displease him purposefully.”  
  
“Oh Emma, you will not understand-“  
  
“He says to all it is a good match. If he can secure it.” The girl smiled sadly holding up the ready dress, silently helping her mistress into the dress, lacing its back. “Lord knows it is a good marriage.”  
  
“You do not understand it sweeting.” Eleanor smiled as she turned, looking at her maid, the girls eyes averted quickly. “As if you are good to be sold at market, the best price, the best deal, the best husband. But I never get to choose. My word means little, the choice is that of powerful men who will force me to consent.”  
  
“But mistress, you need not meet him knowing you will hate him. He may be charming, and kind.”  
  
Eleanor scoffed, her laughter held back only as the door opened and her father entered. The Earl of Shrewsbury held an impressive figure, tall for his time and wealthy in muscle. His torso hard from the toned muscles of a man used to swinging a sword. The women curtsied, eyes dropping to the floor as he approached, lifting his daughter’s chin with two fingers. “Eleanor, my sweet Nell, how pretty you are, how much like your mother.” There was an air of sorrow about him, the clear look of loss upon his face. “Sweet Nell…” He paused, stepping back suddenly, his eyes travelling over her dress as he held her arms. “Why do you not wear the pink silk? It brings out all your beauty. Blue does not suit you.”  
  
“I do so like this dress papa.”  
  
“It will suffice, you are pretty and I would rather you be cheery. For men are drawn by smiles not frowns my darling daughter.” He kissed her cheek and retreated, walking toward the door. “Be ready by noon, we dine lunch and there discuss the contact.”  
  
“Of course papa.” She curtsied once more as the Earl vanished from her vision, closing the door behind him. Lady Eleanor turned and crossed herself before the mirror.  
***  
  
Noon arrived too quickly, Eleanor stood atop the wooden staircase, looking down slope as though it was the root to hell. Her skin ashen pale, her eyes glazed from crying. Emma approached from behind, lifting the trail of her mistresses dress silently, awaiting the woman’s descent. “Lord help me Emma, I am so fearful. What if he is a monster? Or worse, what if I do like him? What if I doomed to marry a man I like? He is a traitor to King Henry-“  
  
“Madam recall, he has been forgiven, been pardoned. Your good lord father would never marry you to an enemy of the King. He is noble, and supposedly the most handsome boy in Christendom. It would not be so bad to like him mistress.” The young girl leaned in closer, offering a hushed whisper with a smile. “I would surely like a handsome man, strong and handsome to hold me and well, to be bedded by a man with the face of-“  
  
“Now now Emma.” Eleanor giggled, kissing her maids cheek before she began the slow descent toward destiny. Toward fate, the descent which would determine so much of the rest of her life. She paused outside her father’s work room, heard the voices of men, the merry laughter of those who had been drinking. The door ajar she saw only figures, before the fire. There was a moment’s pause in the conversation before she saw her father rise, approach the door and open it.  
  
“I thought it was, my sweet Nell.” He placed an arm around her shoulder, encouraging the girl to enter the room before he turned back to their guests. “My lord, this is the girl I have told you about, this is my daughter. Eleanor, meet his grace the Duke of York.” The older man rose slowly, as though weary from age and riding, his small frame looked somewhat crumpled. Eleanor smiled as the man dutifully kissed her hand, all the while her eyes fixed on the figure remaining by the fire, his back still rudely turned to her. Her heart began to pound, speeding in her chest. She knew well what would come next, knew that she would see his face, would know his name. Else this meeting would be a disaster, would amount to naught. Her father smiled as the duke released her hand. “And my lord, the Earl of March.”  
  
The young man rose carefully, swiftly, turning to face her. Her eyes met his, her mouth running dry. She gulped and curtsied as he approached, taking her hands and rising her up, kissing her hand as he dropped to his knee. “Madam, a pleasure it is to meet a woman of such beauty.”  
  
“Your charm will not work with me sir, I am vitreous, honest and true.”  
  
An awkward moment passed, Shrewsbury offered a strained laugh, pulling his daughter to his side as they returned to the seats set neatly by the fire. “My daughter is not one you’ll be before the wedding my lord.”  
  
“Or thereafter I fear.” Eleanor felt her father tense, gasped quietly as she landed with a thud in the chair. Her eyes met the boy earl’s as he tensed, about to stand once more in objection to this rough treatment. She shook her head, eyes meeting her father’s as he sat beside her.  
  
“My daughters humour is different. Apologies my lords, she ill understands masculine humour.”  
  
“As is so for any woman do you not think Shrewsbury?” The Duke spoke with a hushed tone, leaning toward Shrewsbury with a smile hidden from their offspring. “My Duchess does not understand men’s humour yet after years in the marital bed. I would not expect my daughters to understand. Humour is beyond women, they do try but it is not a gift which the lord was so kind to bestow upon them.” York sat back, his eyes meeting the hardened jewels set in the girls head. She smiled sardonically in silent objection. “The lady doth object too much.” Amusement flickered on York’s lips, snatched quickly away by his son’s glare. “Forgive me, it would seem it is the younger generation, not sex which does affect their ability to laugh.”  
  
“You would do well to watch your tongue father.” Young March leaned away from his father, raising his voice from a whisper he looked toward Eleanor, a smile upon his face. “Madam, would care to walk with me. This room is suffocating and the company… stifling.”  
  
“She would love to my lord.” Shrewsbury pushed her up from the chair and toward him.  
  
“Madam?” The young earl asked again, ignored Shrewsbury’s words as though irrelevant. “I believe you have a tongue to speak for yourself, and I would love to hear words more than a simple rejection from you.”  
“I suppose it could not harm.” Her voice was measured, high in authority. She looked at the boy intently, offering him a hand. “As you say, it may be well to rid myself of this room before I choke.”  
  
The outdoor air greeted her with a cool embrace, exciting the senses as her hand rested in the warm crook of her companions arm. They walked slowly, feet crunching lush gravel,. For moments they walked in silence. Eventually his cough broke the peace, his feet coming to a sudden halt. “My lady, forgive my father’s tongue. Soemtimes it is sharp but it cuts far deeper than he means. He is gentle really.”  
  
“He does not seem it, for his tongue has taken this country to the cess pit with his words.”  
  
“The cess pit?” He laughed, stepping away to pick a flower from the rose bush. “My lady is polite, most would say he dragged this country to hell. But most are wrong. My father’s intentions are noble, he wishes only peace.”  
  
“Men have a funny way of gaining peace.” She took the rose as he handed it to her, discarding it as quickly into the flower bed. He frowned taking her hand up once more.  
  
“They do, men are the most peculiar of God’s beings.” He smirked, beginning to walk once more. “But what can we do? Pray for a kind woman to take pity upon us and teach us what it is to be reasonable?”  
  
“A York? Be reasonable?”  
  
“I see our reputation has reached your ears. Madam, do I seem unreasonable to you? Have I forced you or shown you harm?”  
  
“The devil’s advocate may take many forms.” She absent mindedly reached for the rosary which hung from her belt, fingers stroking the golden crucifix.  
  
“It seems I am a fool, I judged you to be kind. Instead I show you kindness and you insult me.” He stepped away, the look of hurt flashing instantly on his face. Eleanor sighed, reaching out she took back his hand, stroking long fingers with her palm. How young he looked, his boyhood showing as he looked to her, hurt and not insult upon his handsome features.  
  
“I upset you? Forgive me, you do not deserve it. You are just a boy. I had not seen it before, a boy with a child’s feelings.” She saw his objection though he did not voice it. “How old are you?”  
  
“Sixteen, almost seventeen. The eldest of my brothers-“  
  
“And still a child.” She smiled, comforting and maternal as she rested her hand in the crook of his arm once more, starting their walk once more. “I am four years your senior, which begs the question why his grace the Duke of York seeks my hand as your bride.”  
“Lands, dowry and a good name for his son.” He blushed, looking away using his free hand to pull the cap so it obscured his face. “The better question, if you be four years my senior, why do you object so much to marrying me?”  
“Perhaps it is not you, but marriage which I object to.”  
***  
  
Inside the house the fire crackled as the men drank ale warming their feet. Their eyes met briefly as the Duke emptied his tankard, returning it to the table with force. His gaze level, hand steady as he leaned forward in the chair, Shrewsbury shifted, discomfort clear on his face. He used a shaking hand to wipe sweat from his dampened forehead. How could he have been such a fool, to allow the girl to speak? Why had he been so kind to her, to allow her such lenience as to allow her free thought? How could she have betrayed him so, as to insult the Duke of York himself, and York’s own heir so openly. He watched as York clicked his fingers, gaining a servants attention with the order of more ail.  
  
No words were exchanged until the tankard was once more full. Shrewsbury watched quietly, nerves clear in his expression. He inhaled, fighting for control of his voice as he spoke. “About the marriage your grace-“  
  
“Yes. I don’t think it suitable. For the limited dowry you offer with her, she seems vulgar and uncontrolled. I wish not the prospect of teaching the girl etiquette for such limited gain.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at Shrewsbury as the Earl’s expression changed. The vein in his neck beginning the twitch which accompanied anger, York kept control as he spoke again. “No, the dowry will need to renegotiated before the wedding can be considered.”  
  
“Renegotiated? Sir, you stand to gain a large amount from this marriage, your son also. You dare call my daughter vulgar and lacking in discipline, but dare I say sir, from your son’s displays that he is little better.”  
  
“My son is disciplined, how dare you say otherwise.”  
  
“By your wife mayhap, but the boy seems poorly controlled in your care. After all, you’d be well advised to hold your tongue my lord.”  
  
“As would you, for I could have it removed if I had mind.” The Duke rose from his chair, stopped as Shrewsbury followed, towering over the duke with a sinister presence. “You dare challenge me sir?”  
  
“I object to your ignorance and you shall know it.”  
  
“My ignorance?”  
  
“Your foolish belief that you stand to gain nothing from this marriage. I inform your grace that your position at court, indeed in this country is low, your reputation tarnished by your treason. It is only the fool who forget St Albans.”  
  
“I will not take this. When you daughter can act as a lady, a countess mayhap I will consider the marriage, with a dowry more substantial and befitting of my sons position. Until such a time this can be arranged the wench can rot. As she is growing in age and barely marriageable Shrewsbury, I would advise you consider a speedy decision sir.”  
  
“How dare you! Insult my family in my home.” Shrewsbury followed the Duke as York left the manor, storming down the path, eyes searching for the son he had brought with him. “York come back we have not finished!”  
  
“Oh we have my lord, the topic is exhausted. Think on my words with care. You may have lost a valuable ally. My lord of March!” He set foot upon the grass, pausing as Shrewsbury spoke.  
  
“At least I know where my loyalties should lie. I do not breathe treason.”  
  
York’s face flushed red with anger. “Edward! Edward we leave now! Immediately. Get your horse.” York watched as his son approached, dallying with Shrewsbury’s daughter testing his patience.  
“Yes, pretend you have control now your grace, but let my lady Cecily deal with him upon your return to Ludlow. As surely she always does.”  
  
York mounted his horse spurring it as his hand slapped his sons horse into motion. He turned in the saddle calling back to Shrewsbury. “At least there is prospect of marriage for my son sir. He has youth in him yet.” York tipped his cap to Eleanor taking the reins in his hand taking the horse to canter.  
  
Eleanor Talbot felt tears brim in her eyes as she watched York’s heir gallop into the distance, never to be seen by her eyes again. Or so she believed.


	2. A Long Time Past

**Rouen, 1448**

  * Negotiations had been going well. Shrewsbury sat in a room crowded with well-dressed men in fine velvets, weighed down with jewels. The Duke of York sat silently, his face set hard with the stubbornness bred through the generations of Plantagenet’s. Next to him sat Salisbury, his Neville brother-in-law, a man known for his mercy. A man who was the stark contrast of the heavy jewelled Duke.  
For a moment, no one spoke, the atmosphere gloomy from the knowledge of violence, for the reason all were here. Shrewsbury shuddered not from cold but anticipation. King Henry had sent him to finish these negotiations, to tell the Duke news he would be loath to hear. The war was to end, the Duke to be short of a job and a French castle. The fighting, the bloodshed and the bankruptcy of England had been for naught. It had amounted to nothing but the lost lands of Normandy which had so proudly belonged to England. Such a disaster had not been seen since the rule of good King John. The tyrant ancestor of these ruling men.  
All knew York had invested his very being into this war, he had paid more than all of them. Now he was indebted, owed 10,000 pounds by the crown. 10,000 pounds he would never see again. 10,000 pounds that would have fed his family, would have kept him wealthy. Now he had nothing. Shrewsbury began to speak, putting Henry’s petition forward, mentioning the kings message to the outrage of this royal duke. To the discomfort of his Neville kindred. Shrewsbury’s eyes met his cousins, begging help and sympathy from the Yorkist Earl. Salisbury shrugged, knowing nothing now was in his power to stop the Duke’s fury as he raved. His voice loud from anger. All until attention as taken by the doors opened, small children ran into the room, bickering between themselves. Shrewsbury breathed relief as the Duke’s eyes set upon the boys, watching with pride as they fought between themselves, distracting all from the dark topic none wished to discuss.  
Five minutes passed before the children played at York’s feet. The Duke looked down in paternal approval, his hand resting on the eldest’s head. The boy had approached in nervous curiosity, peering over the table with soft blue eyes, smiling the innocent smile of a six year old. Shrewsbury smiled, frowning slightly as the Duke lifted the boy onto his lap. “Oh Edward, always seeking my attentions.” The female voice filled the room, the woman approaching at almost a run, the look of devastation clear on her face as she lifted the infant from the dukes lap.  
  
“My lord papa is busy, he has little time for children-“  
  
“Wife-“ He was cut down by the look, offering Shrewsbury a blush stained glance. Offering a smile and a shrug, Shrewsbury stifled a laugh –knowing well the look York had handed him. Women, what can you do?  
“Duchess Cecily, good morning to you.” Shrewsbury laughed, standing as he took the writhing child from Cecily’s arms. Watching as the boys muttered objection turned to tear stained wails. Reaching for his father, silenced only as his cheek rested against the dukes velvet doublet. “My daughter is a similar age.”  
  
“Daughter?”  
  
“Nell, she is ten this January.”  
  
“Edward is seven this April.”  
“Have you discussed his marriage.” Shrewsbury held up a hand to stop the dukes objection. “Please my lord, you discussed the boys marriage at his third birthday. A French alliance.”  
  
“I was not to object about my son’s age Shrewsbury.” As the duke spoke, he did so with a wry smile, stroking the child’s blond locks as he rocked the boy. “It is rather what you can offer.”  
  
“Oh York, my offer, it is limitless.” Both sets of eyes set onto the child now sleeping against his father’s chest.  
  
***  
  
The room was bleak, the atmosphere gloomy. The Earl of Shrewsbury looked at his daughter, silent disapproval registering on his face, soon festering to anger as she offered her usual dismissive smile. One which read she cared little for his opinions, little for the fact that she had worked with York’s cub to humiliate him – to ruin the agreements which had brought peace to a country torn. Which would have seen the Talford’s once more favoured at court, once more rich and influential. He flinched at his sudden realisation. Never before had he hated this girl, never had he looked to his daughter and his blood boiled. He rose quickly, gaining every man’s attention, the ignorance of his daughter outliving his outburst.  
Nell Talbot waited until the room lacked her father’s presence, looking up her eyes met the sparkling diamonds of Emma’s eyes. The maid approached, curtsying as her mistress signalled her close. “Send a message to Peter for me, I want my horse saddled, I will travel.”  
  
“But my lady, his lordship wills it you stay here.”  
  
“In confinement until I come to my senses, until he can persuade that devil I will marry his son without complaint, without the need for, training.” Emma winced at the harsh tone of her mistress’ words. She curtsied before leaving the room, her loyalties torn. His lordship would whip her, would take her wages and cast her to the streets should he hear she played a hand in his daughter’s escape. But how could she keep her mistress her, cooped up like a prisoner, like chickens or sheep. She hurried her feet along the gravel path, pulling Peter from his slumber with a slap.  
  
“Mistress Eleanor wants her horse.”  
  
“Can’t do Emmy, his lordship says nay. Not until she comes to sense. Till she writes to the Duke in apology, her dowry doubled for her troubles.”  
  
“Peter, don’t be a fool. You cannot have her kept here. You cannot.” Emma watched, fury filling her for the first time in her years. How could men be so callous? She stormed back toward the house offering the news to her mistress with dismay.




	3. Memories

The wind blew softly reminding Eleanor of times past. Of happy childhood days spent in the grounds of Sudely manor. The flurry pf coloured skirts, the sounds of children’s cheers, their woops for joy. The image of her mother, her father, both watching them from a bench beneath the great oak which shadowed the gardens. Both spent from the games the children had forced them to engage in. Her eyes closed momentarily as she walked, her hand tightening and her feet stopping. She remembered what had happened, when all had changed. The day her father had left, the day he had boarded the ship for France. How quickly their fortunes had turned. The rumours had been started in the towns, her mother had told her not to worry.

Whispers of witchcraft cannot hurt the noble women….

The witchcraft had soon been sorcery and treason. Had moved from being a peasants rumour to a truth of King Henry’s court. How quickly they had been summoned by Queen Margaret, expected to explain themselves. The scrutiny of the French queen’s eyes. The ‘she wolf’ her enemies called her, and enemies she was not short of. Those with intelligence among them silenced their tongues. The woman was dangerous and Eleanor had learned it from a young age. When her mother had been tried before the court, and later burnt for her innocence.

Eleanor dropped to her knees, sobbing at the memory as the smell of sulphur, the reeking stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils. Her mother’s screams haunting her even now. The sound of the awful cry, for mercy for her daughter, the innocent girl who had done nothing. She shrugged off the hands which set upon her arms, trying to drag her to her feet as she sobbed. Crossing herself as finally the man won, she regretted it all. How she wished she could have traded her place with her mother, how she wished, prayed would give up all for the soft maternal touch she had lost that decade past. “Nell, sweet Nell, it has been too much for you. Please Jesu forgive me. How could I betray such a beautiful girl.”

“Papa…. I feel faint.”

“Sit, you must sit. Emma! Fetch wine!” Shrewsbury hurried the girl to a bench, setting her upon it, wiping the hair from her eyes and dabbing her tears with his sleeve. “Nell, what happened? You were fine. Was it me? Did I pressure you? Mayhap the excitement got to you-“

“The excitement?” She looked blankly to him. “Oh, no.”

“The marriage scared you. Edward of March, my god did he hurt you?”

“No. Papa, it is naught but memories. Mother.”

“You must not think of it Nell.” His voice turned suddenly cold, moving from her side he paced. How many times had he told the girl to forget her mother, forget all she had seen? He had saved them only with York’s return. Only as England was once again brought to chaos, all had been forgotten with the King’s madness, the birth of Prince Edward. The worry had shifted from a child witch and a treacherous Earl. The accusations faded with nothing but lands diminished. Nothing but a slight scar upon their good name and the fine which forced them to poverty. But they had survived by his careful words. By his knowledge. Now the girl put them at risk. How many times did he need to say that witchcraft was dangerous, even to sympathise with a sorcerer long dead, it would see young Nell in the flames like her mother before her.

His eyes met hers, seeing the tears welling , a river finally bursting its strained banks. An ocean swelling with the winter rains. Beneath the childish tears he saw the flare of a woman grown. The strength her mother had born. He crossed himself discreetly, comforting the girl before Emma arrived with the wine, spilling droplets onto the grass as with shaking hands she held it to her mistress. “Will my lady be well?”

“She will be fine, the excitement of the wedding was too much. It will not happen, his grace the duke was wroth when he left. He will not permit to Edward’s hand to a Talbot. She need not fret anymore.” The Earl rose, bringing Eleanor slowly to her feet, saying nothing of the truth to anyone in the household. Silently, he prayed she would not be as her mother. It had not been a secret in their marriage, how Elizabeth had seen spirits. How he needed to remain silent about such, else the girl would become foolish. She too would think it a gift to be granted Satan’s own powers.


	4. Chapter 4

**1459**

 

“Papa! What is happening? Why are there men everywhere, why is everyone armed?” The recently widowed Dame Eleanor Butler _nee_ Talbot appeared at her fathers side, her eyes pleading him for answers. He sighed, Talbot had never been a man to offer details so willingly to his daughter. “Papa, you can tell me!” She followed him as he began to walk, grouping with a man she barely recognised, walking fast towards men she recognised even less. “You saw it fit to marry to a man who die in your service, and yet you do not see it fit to tell me what you do in the King's service.”

 

“If you must know, York has asked for war. Demanded it actually.” He began to speak to the man next to him, the man she soon realised was the Duke of Somerset himself. The son of York's old rival. His enemy. She curtsied and muttered a muffled your grace as she followed, knowingly risking her fathers anger. “Eleanor! This is not a woman's business, women do not make war nor should they be involved in it! It is not the place for ladies, of any rank or experience.” He looked to the Duke, just as she was about to turn away, hearing the words he said about her. “She only care because her sweetheart, Edward of March is in residence at Ludlow.” They laughed together as inwardly, Eleanor blazed with anger. Her cheeks going red, ignored by the father and the most arrogant Duke of Somerset. She stopped, waiting for either man to speak again. It was once again the deep voice of her father which graced her ears. “Little does sweet Nell know that it does matter little whether her sweetheart, his Lord of March was resident at Ludlow, London or Fotheringhay. We would find it and take it upon our selves to see him eliminated.”  
  
“Lady Eleanor, you should know. His lordship will not have cause to suffer. Should he surrender, her grace Queen Margeurite has ordered a quick dispatch. Only if they refuse should he be forced to feel pain. You need not shed a tear for your childhood sweetheart, for he is a traitor-”  
  
“I am not in love with Edward of March!” She finally snapped, looking to them with determined eyes. Eyes dark, almost hollowing with passionate anger. “Like you, my Lord Somerset, he is arrogant. As I must assume is every noble man, from my husband and my father to a Duke and an Earl. None will I love, for father you have taught me one thing only, that is I wish only to marry a common now I have the prerogative to chose a husband of my own!” She turned, storming away, ignoring the stricken look upon the Duke's face, the reddening of her fathers cheeks as he grew angry at her words. She then ignored how Somerset prevented her from feeling her fathers sometimes brutal rage; if only for his embarrassment. For Beaufort was a man to know how easy it was to underestimate a woman. Being the cousin of the Lady Margaret Beaufort taught a man a otherwise hard lesson, for the young Beaufort heiress was one of intelligence.

 

As she entered the manor, charging to her chambers and slamming her door. As she collapsed on her bed, having seen the sights her fathers gathering to arms had offered her, she thought not of her father. Thought not of the trouble which might befall him, of the death which would be reeked on England, on Shropshire, her own home county an area her father had sworn not to destroy, but to protect. Instead, she thought of her Edward, young Edward of March, the gentleman he had been so secluded in his castle with a force coming to confront him.   
  
How would young Edward react, and could she send word to him? Could she warn him of what was to come? Could she prevent the slaughter which would otherwise happen if her father and his men were to sack, siege and pillage Ludlow? Could she prevent the potentially high death toll? She cursed, for once abandoning the faith to which she had been so loyal, the faith which in this society bound her to her place in society. How she cursed the King, cursed her father and cursed the Duke of York. How she cursed these men themselves and all their kind. For though she could write, what good would it do? No man would listen to her, the letter would never even get to him. But if it did, why would he ever take seriously the words of a young Lancastrian widow? A woman with no knowledge of the ways in which wars worked.

 

She sat upon the bed, bringing Emma near as the girl approached. It was only then, locked in the safe seclusion of her private chamber, the curtains closed and her maid close by did Eleanor Butler finally let the tears leave her eyes. Why did she feel so helpless? Why did she care? Edward of March was gone to her, and a traitor to the crown. The Queen had ordered his death, did not all traitors get what they deserved?   
  
But then the question came across her mind: How could she just sit there, the obedient woman when Queen Margaret was allowed to break her position, to deviate from the expectations of femininity so easily?   
  
It was then that Eleanor knew what she should do. Reaching for the quill and parchment, she scribbled the words she needed to, scribbled the warning which she so longed to send ahead of her fathers army. A fair warning to the York's of the tragedy which would befall them should they be at Ludlow when the sacking began. For among the men she had seen one face she thought familiar. One face she had not expected to see. Among then men was Andrew Trollope, York's most loyal and faithful servant.

 

 _Edward, Earl of March_  
  
I send you warning, ahead of the men I have seen gathering. For Lancaster have found where you all do hide. Followed York to your stronghold and now they gather troops. Somerset, Shrewsbury and Clifford are here, with word from Queen Marguerite bidding for your deaths. The York lords are not safe, have men flee for their lives. You cannot hope to face them, cannot hope to win. For with them I have seen a name you surely wish not to here. With them is your trusted man, your beloved Andrew Trollope.   
  
Leave now, or prepare for certain death. 

 

_Your secret and loyal informer._

 

She folded the paper, waxed and sealed the bundle and tied it with string. She then turned, placing the bundle in the hands of young Emma. Kissing her cheek as she whispered. “I must send you, you are the only one I can trust. Get this to Ludlow, to Lord Edward of March. Only to his Lordship, you must put it in his hand. You must get there before my father, ride hard and fast and when asked what you are doing, an errand for your lady.. Say nothing of the letters, I want some delicacies.” Their hands touched, held for but a moment. “Godspeed Emma, Godspeed.” With those words, her maid pulled on her cloak, pulling the hood over her head and left the manor.

 

Eleanor watched her go, the stinging feeling of anxiety settling deep within her. She could not hope but wonder whether or not she had done the right thing. To save Edward she had placed Emma in danger. If they were caught Emma was dead and the cause lost. If Edward did not heed her warning, the risk was for less. She took to her knees, praying to a God she struggled to believe in.

 

***  
  


Ludlow Castle  
  
Edward received the woman, the woman he had seen before. Her hurried words had been panted, gained his attention. “The Lady Eleanor, she sends you word, warning about grave news my lord. She sends you this message, a message it is vital you take seriously.” The look upon her face made him abandon his teachings. He smiled, taking the letter from his hand. How he would regret this, how he had been taught so carefully to not listen to the words of women. Especially at times of war. But then his mother had spoken, her opinions of war open and sensible how could he not take their opinions seriously? With such forceful, sensible and wise women around him so very often.

 

His eyes glanced over the words, taking them in and absorbing their meaning. His hands began to shake, his nerves suddenly on edge. “And your mistress, your mistress is sure this is true?”

 

“Quite true my lord, I saw it myself.”  
  
“Quite a force?”  
  
“About six thousand strong.”   
  
He cursed, wincing under the strain. He did hate to be the one who confessed all to his father. He hated to be the one to bring the news they did not want to hear. The news that all was lost and that Trollope, of all men, Trollope had betrayed them to Shrewsbury! To Somerset and Clifford. Oh how he cursed. The obscenities made the girl wince, blushes filling her cheeks before he apologised for his fowl tongue. “I had forgotten a lady was present madam.” He rose quickly, holding the door for her to follow as he set for the stairs, taking their spiralling curve to the bottom of the gate tower. Across the inner bailey to the solar, up to the highest floor and to his father. Panting for breath as he did, trying to find the right words to spill about the most hurtful betrayal.

 

“Papa, I have word. Shrewsbury will attack with Clifford and Somerset come dawn. They head from Shrewsbury with six thousand men.”   
  
“Then we need wait only for Trollope to arrive-” The Duke had looked up, meeting his sons eyes. The fearful look on his boys face brought his heart pounding. Hurting him as he saw Edward shake his head. His words faded to mumbles. “My God, he cannot have.”

 

“He betrayed us.” Edward's words were mumbled, filled with the emotional tears which accompanied panic. “What are we to do father?”  
  
“We flee Edward, we flee. Get your brother, Rutland must come. And Warwick and Salisbury. Meet me in the Great Hall, there we shall make our announcement.”


	5. Chapter 5

March 1460  
He had been gone for many months. She had heard it from the servants that morning; her love had gone. Below her on the street the men and women of Shrewsbury hurried to get on with their life without a care for her worries or her pain. 

Oh she was in pain. It had not been until she had heard the news of his disappearance from England, when tears had streamed freely down her face, that she had realised she loved him. Loved him with all her heart. In recent years her father had taught her to hate the York’s, the family she had not seen for many years. He had told her she was to forget the arrogant, ignorant, obnoxious boy who had shown her a kindness she did not know. 

Kindness she would have never known, if not for him. 

When her noble lord father had decided he would join the Lancastrian King, a man Eleanor had not met, she had been married to a man of Lancastrian loyalties. A man who had died fighting for King Henry. A man who had allowed the French Queen Marguerite to chase England’s heir to the throne from his country’s shores. More impotently, she had stolen away Edward. 

She had not heard news from him. Had heard nothing from any of them, nothing from her servants until that day. The news had come by the way of a messenger. A messenger which brought her mixed news; her father had died in battle, on another note, they would soon be to receive a visit from the victors of Towton as they progressed to London.   Progressed to London to claim their crown. 

***

She was surprised as the hands, gentle and coated in soft leather, lifted her from her curtsy and soon, she was looking into the eyes of a man she had not expected to see. Smiling at her was the man she had believed she would never see again. Edward Earl of March, now Duke of York and King of England.   
 Had she caught her breathe a moment sooner she would not have heard his words. “I hoped to see you here, I thought mayhap I would never see you again.” He whispered the words before breaking away, speaking loudly and clearly as his retinue stepped closer, the man she recognised as the Earl of Warwick offering him a scowl. “Madam, though I bring you bad tidings we come to make peace. It is with the greatest regret I am to inform you of your father’s passing. However we are hungry from our journey and Ludlow is too far away. We shall never make it before nightfall. It is why I implore your mercy my lady.” 

She did not smile, instead she raised her head high and composed herself as her father had always taught her. Strong, independent and dignified. She would let no man be in control of her life, not now she had earned her independence. No man, regardless of his status, would be seen to have her bend to his command, no man would catch her unguarded, unprepared.   Not even the man stood before her. The man who made her breath hitch, the one who made her tremble. 

“Your Grace, I had anticipated your impending visit and prepared accordingly. There us cheese and ham and bread. I shall have some wine fetched up to us. Come.” 

They did as they were instructed much to her delight. No sooner had they reached the board table than they had eaten till their stomach’s would burst and then she took her leave. She desired nothing more than air in her lungs. Not for too much wine, not for too much food, nor the talk of men, nor the scent of their odour. No, but for the presence of one man and the plague of passion he could cause her with a simple glance. 

She sighed as the cool air reached her lungs. She began to walk, taking in the roses, stopping to pick a white one. She whispered to herself as she walked, sniffing the scent of the rose. She would not let him win. She would not give in to her desires. She would not, could not let him rule her, let him own her, let him know her..... never in that way. 

Unless....  
 No, she would not think that way. She would not consider the possibility. He would not marry her, he had been reluctant when an earl, it would be impossible now. Now he was King he could not marry the daughter of a Lancastrian Earl. He could not marry a widow. He would not consider it. Would not do it.   Nor did she want him to, she told herself, failing as she did to convince her conscience. Her body burned for him, for his touch, for his love. She had for many years desired the affections of this boy. She had never forgotten him. Whilst she had assumed the desire would crumble, that she would forget, and more recently, as she had told herself she would not remarry, would not be ruled by any man. Yet the moment their eyes had met something within her had melted and now her heart felt duelled by his existence. 

Her thoughts were shattered and her body responded as he spoke. She dropped the rose and spun around as his words broke through the silence. “Eleanor. Oh Eleanor. How long it has been since I have seen you.”   She tried not to smile, tried not to say that she too had thought it too long. Wanted to express her amazement at his remembering her name, surely he had been through so many a betrothal at his age. Even if he was still England’s most eligible batchelor. Yet she did not, could not. 

“Your Grace, should you not be with your council? They will wonder where you are. Lord knows what England would do if they were to be rid of you. You are King now and must take care.” She turned once again and walked slowly, with composure and dignity. 

“You will not hurt me, sweet sweet Eleanor. You are so gentle.” She did not respond. “I have not stopped thinking of the last time I saw you.”   “We did not leave on good terms.I do not know why it stands in your memory.”  “Because I never forget beauty.”

She stopped, looking at him as her mouth broke into a smile. “I thank you your grace.”   “I do not say it to flatter.” His voice was stern, his hand strong as he stopped her returning to her walk, striding into her path. “Come with me.” He said the words, watching as she shook her heard furiously as though he was insane.  “I cannot. Your men they will-”  “Then come to London in your own time. I beg you. I need to see you, need to know you.” He whispered the words, she saw the reason why as Warwick approached. “Lord knows I will need a friend in this coming months.”


End file.
